


200mph

by Siria



Series: Nantucket AU [67]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-12
Updated: 2007-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:49:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning before he flies out, Rodney sits on the wooden steps leading up to their little porch and watches John down on the beach, mock-wrestling Cash for control of a very beaten up frisbee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	200mph

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Sheafrotherdon for audiencing. For Aesc, in the hopes that it will cheer her up a wee bit. Um. Don't try this at home?

The morning before he flies out, Rodney sits on the wooden steps leading up to their little porch and watches John down on the beach, mock-wrestling Cash for control of a very beaten up frisbee. It's earlier than Rodney normally gets up, light still grey and fitful over the open ocean, but he finds he needs several hours of consciousness and at least four mugs of really good Kona before he can even contemplate getting onto a commercial aircraft these days; so he sits there, hands wrapped around the warm mug in his hand, and stares at John.

John succeeds in getting the frisbee free from Cash's snapping teeth, lets it fly with a clean arc of his arm and a low murmur of words Rodney can't make out from this far away. The dog leaps into the surf to catch it, dropping it back at John's feet and shaking out his fur so that he sprays John with salt-water and sand. John laughs, one of his great belly laughs, a _har har har_ that drifts on the breeze up to where Rodney's perched. It makes something in Rodney's chest twist, just like always, to hear all that casual and open affection in John's voice, to be stunned all over again at how John is _happy_ here with him; and oh, he thinks somewhat desperately, it's not like he won't be kept busy, between bouncing ideas off Radek, subtly gloating over Sam, and playing with whatever new toys the SGC have acquired since the last time he was there; and _oh_, he thinks when John looks up at him and grins, tosses him a mock salute, clean line of his throat and open curve of his smile, it's not like he won't be back here this time next week.

_Seven days_, he thinks. He can manage seven days. His hands tighten around the mug.

***

The SGC's different than he remembered it. Not that anything about it has changed, of course: the same institutional grey concrete and low ceilings; the same pervasive, low hum of fluorescent lighting and back-up power generators; even, Rodney thinks, the exact same food in the staff canteen. (He's missed the blue jello.)

The SGC is different to him now because he's different; he was content here once, hidden away beneath tons of earth and rock, buried in the work he shared with Radek and Sam, but he's happy in Nantucket, happier with John, and when he breathes in deep here, there's no tang of salt at the back of his throat. _Seven days_, he reminds himself when he dumps his bag on the bed in his guest quarters. The room is clean and sterile, the bed neatly made, and the light on the security camera blinks fitfully high up in one corner near the ceiling. _Seven days_, he tells himself as he heads out in search of strong coffee, Lab 4A, and the architecture of the heavens that they are, all of them, building slowly and piecemeal in strong black equations on square, blank whiteboards.

***

Of course, this being the SGC, there's some kind of crisis on his sixth day there. Rodney's never exactly clear on the details—no one bothers to tell him, and he's pretty sure he'd be told he doesn't have high enough clearance any more if he did ask—but if he has to guess, going on past form, he's pretty sure that it involves megalomaniac, body-swapping aliens, or an accident with a quantum mirror, or Daniel Jackson returned from the dead mother-naked for the (he does a quick tally on his fingers) nineteenth time.

All Rodney knows is that he has to work on how to get the 'gate to stay connected for longer than fourteen seconds at a time, has to battle against Ancient safety protocols to find a workaround that will let SG-1 go out there and do its thing while he and Radek sit impotently in one of the labs and play a distracted game of high-stakes Scrabble to pass the time.

Somewhere around the fourth hour, they hear the klaxon that heralds an incoming wormhole; both of them tense, but there's no sound of explosions, no booming, distorted voice over the intercom to tell them that it's time to bow the knee to their new Goa'uld and/or Ori overlord. Rodney's just starting to relax, to absorb the thought that maybe SG-1 might have pulled off yet another of those one-in-a-million miracles that they seem to manage nine times out of ten, when that Vala woman pokes her head around the door.

"There you are, Rodney," she purrs. Rodney doesn't think that outfit is military regulation. "Just the man I was looking for."

"That's Dr McKay to you," Rodney says, aiming for haughty and hitting awkward instead, shifting in his seat and folding his arms across his chest. Vala always makes him uneasy; she's all, all... _thing_. Leather. Sex. He's pretty sure she's the sort of woman his mother would have warned him about, and while normally that would make him pretty enthusiastic? Here he's pretty sure his mother had some idea what she was talking about.

"Tell me," she says, hopping up to sit on Rodney's desk, letting her legs swing freely, "Why are all the men on your planet so tense? Do you have some kind of cultural embargo against orgasms? It really can't be good for your blood pressure. They're very helpful, you know, but Daniel never seemed very keen on them, no matter how much I offered."

Rodney tries very, very hard not to choke on his own spit; Radek is sitting in the corner and laughing to himself, the treacherous bastard.

"I will have you know I am very pro-orgasm," Rodney says acidly, "in fact I—" Round about there, he remembers that it might not be such a good idea to mention the enthusiastic and fairly athletic sex he's having with his ex-USAF boyfriend while in a military base, so he tilts his chin upwards and says "What, exactly, did you want?"

"Oh," Vala says airily, "I didn't want you for anything. It's Sam." She gestures in the direction of the gate room with a lollipop she produced from... god knows where in an outfit that tight. "Something trying to reset the protocols on the 'gate now that we're back, yadda yadda, can't override the back-up back-up protocols, probable naqadah explosion in about six hours and an end to all life in Colorado if you can't help her solve it."

Rodney gapes at her. Vala beams and prods him in the shoulder. "Well, go to!" she says "Chop chop, what are you waiting for?"

***

It's another six days before Rodney gets home, the difficulty with the protocols turning out to be a particularly nasty 'gate virus uploaded by a rogue Goa'uld in a last-ditch fit of spite. When he staggers off the plane in Boston, he knows that he has to look terrible—the woman sitting next to him in business class was giving him the stink-eye all the way from O'Hare—he was red-eyed even before he got on the red eye, his hair feathery and unbrushed, his clothes all rumpled and creased. He feels a little light-headed, a little manic, the way he tends to get when he's gone for days without sleep, with only coffee to keep his eyes open—and when he sees John waiting for him just beyond baggage claim, Rodney can tell he feels the same.

There's nothing overt in John's manner, of course, nothing in the way he's dressed—jeans, battered old flip-flops, a faded red Boston College t-shirt—but Rodney can tell. The steady shifting from foot to foot, the way he's jingling the car-keys in his hand, the set line of his jaw—that's John's version of manic.

"Hey," Rodney says, voice gone soft with tiredness, "long time no see, hmm?" He just wants to wrap his arms around John right there, hug him close and rest, because it was a shitty two weeks, and Rodney will never be allowed to tell him all the ways it truly sucked; but John ignores the greeting, presses a rough kiss to Rodney's temple before snatching away Rodney's bag with one hand, grabbing Rodney's free hand with his other, and pulls him bodily out of the terminal. Rodney squawks a little bit, indignant despite the haze of tiredness and the thrilling feeling of having John touching him again; he knows he wasn't exactly gone on a three month trek through the Andes, but he was expecting something a little bit more, something a little bit _warmer_.

(And goddammit, the security guards at the door shouldn't look _amused_; his brain is a national treasure — in two countries, no less! it's very close to earning him a Nobel! it's _saved the planet_— there's every possibility that John might just be a really really hot terrorist!)

John drags him outside, pays for the parking without saying a word, and guides him into the car park and over to the Wagoneer. He bundles the luggage into the trunk and Rodney into the driver seat, tossing him the keys before he crosses around to the passenger seat. Rodney's now befuddled and sleepy enough that he doesn't question it, just goes with it, takes the key and sticks it in the ignition—and feels his mouth go slack with shock when John reaches out, grabs his face with both hands and pulls him close. There's nothing chaste in this kiss now, no dry brush of lips against forehead — _tongue!_ Rodney's brain thinks, somewhat shocked, right before it goes offline — this is dirty and deep, John's tongue flickering over the roof of Rodney's mouth, John's teeth worrying insistently at Rodney's lower lip, John groaning into the kiss with all the force of something being released.

By the time John pulls away, his pupils are blown and his cheeks are flushed; one hand is resting high up on Rodney's thigh, fingers stroking soft over the worn denim so close to his crotch that Rodney can feel his hips jerk upwards just a little, involuntarily. "The hotel's twenty minutes away," John says hoarsely, "take the highway south."

"Right," Rodney says, turning on the car, "Right, yes, of course," because he knew this, knows this, knows that they're staying in a hotel for the night before getting the ferry back, good idea, yes, with the beds close by, and... things, and god, it's probably the special kind of dirty, to be driving a _Wagoneer_ with a hard-on.

They pull out into the heavy traffic, and Rodney groans in frustration; he forgot how much he fucking hates Boston in the evenings, rush hour traffic making it impossible for them to make their exit in much less than an hour. His frustration's got nothing on John's, though, apparently; John blows out an exasperated breath, drums the fingers of his right hand on the door handle for a moment before he says, tersely, "Keep your eyes on the road."

"Hey!" Rodney says, a little wounded, "I will have you know I am a perfectly competent driver, even in heavy traffic, and—"

"Keep your eyes on the road," John says again, and then _holy fuck_, he's bending over and pulling down Rodney's fly abruptly, yanking open the placket of his boxers.

"Jesus Christ!" Rodney yelps at the first touch of John's tongue against the head of his cock; his hands jerk a little on the wheel, unmeaning, and he has to fight to keep them moving straight and steady in their lane. John sucks just the tip into his mouth, sweet, wet suction; that alone and two weeks absence is enough to have Rodney babbling—_jesus, yes_ and _no, don't stop_ and _what if, if, there's police, speed cameras, nuns in minivans with children, oh my god, John, John, your mouth._

Rodney's hand are white-knuckled on the steering wheel, eyes locked straight ahead on the road in front of him, unseeing on the road signs scrolling slowly past, but it doesn't matter anyway, because he can't remember which exit they were supposed to take, at this rate they'll end up in _Connecticut_; but he doesn't care, doesn't care, because John has one hand braced hot and heavy against his thigh, and John's sweet mouth is pulling all of the last two weeks from him moment by moment, leaving him only with the here and the now and the rasping, panting sound of his own breathing ringing in his ears. Surprise, and want denied for too long, and the sheer adrenaline of doing this _here, now_, have Rodney so close to the edge so very quickly that his heart's pounding with it.

John's putting everything into this, Rodney can tell, despite the awkward angle and the uncomfortable twist of his body; wet suction and the delicate scrape of teeth against the head, just the way Rodney likes it, slow and hard; and John's getting off on it too, making little whimpering noises, helpless, when he takes Rodney down as deep as he can.

The traffic's getting heavier now, slowing down to a crawl, to a stop, and Rodney's never been happy for construction work, has never rejoiced in it, but he does now: because that means he can take one shaking hand from the wheel and bury it in John's thick, soft hair, palm the surprisingly fragile curve of John's head; because it means he can mumble, "Oh god, I can't believe you, I _missed_ you, oh god, _John_"; can start to thrust as deep as he dares, looking down at John curled up in his lap, at the way John's lashes are shadowed dark on his cheek, mouth red and swollen.

John's eyes flutter open briefly, looking up at Rodney with that dazed expression he always gets when he's really gone on this, on the sensation of Rodney inside him. His eyes are dark, sleepy and hooded, and when he groans, Rodney can feel the vibrations humming around his cock, and that's enough, that's enough, a sweet wash of feeling to push him over the edge— his hips snap forward once, and he comes.

John sucks him gently until he starts to soften, swallows everything down, letting Rodney slip free from his mouth only once the traffic starts to move again, but he doesn't move away; lets his head rest heavy against Rodney's thigh. Rodney risks a glance down while he's tucking himself away—he doesn't want to get arrested for indecent exposure _now_, thank you very much—but John's eyes are closed, his mouth slack and peaceful looking now, no hint of tension in the lines around his eyes.

"You're a complete freak, you know that?" Rodney says fondly as they finally approach their turn off; he strokes John's hair with one hand as they drive up the off-ramp. Thank god, he can finally see the hotel; the _things_ he is going to do to John, with him, once they get inside that hotel room.

"Mmmhmm," John agrees happily, pressing an absent kiss to Rodney's hipbone. "'m glad y'came back."

Rodney smiles, and says "Me, too," and he drives on until they get where they're going.


End file.
